


Sugar Rush

by thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.' </p><p>MuraHimu AU dump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> I've had these sitting around for a long, long time and thought, what better time to post them than on MuraHimu week?
> 
> Btw comments would be _amazing_ , if you have the time <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Himuro's a vampire, to go with the [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2672675) where it's the other way around.

He swears he nearly hacks up a lung.

Not that he needs it or any of his major organs, but that's beside the point.

The kid's still motionless under him, neck bared and accomodating, but his eyes are frighteningly lucid for someone who's supposed to be hypnotized, scrutinizing Tatsuya's every move.

"What's wrong, Muro-chin?"

 _Muro-chin._ His heart leaps out last.

"Nothing," Tatsuya says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and even the _smell_ of it is sticky sweet, how the hell hadn't he noticed it earlier? He can't bring himself to drink after that; it almost feels like cheating, somehow, because if Tatsuya doesn't off him then surely his sugar intake will do it eventually.

It'll be more interesting to find out how long he can stay alive, and Tatsuya's got plenty of time to waste.

(Later, the kid asks him if his blood really tasted _that_ bad, lips curling up into a lazy smirk when Tatsuya represses a shudder at the tooth-aching memory of it.

"You knew?"

"Mm, yeah. It was obvious."

So much for his renowned powers of stealth and subtlety. "Then why'd you come with me?" Why did you sit still, just waiting to be killed?

There go the kid's eyes again, narrowing at him for a moment behind slivers of hair, before they tilt their focus back on the box of pocky in his hands, giving Tatsuya a one-shouldered shrug.

 _One._ Tatsuya's nearly a thousand years old, he's certain he deserved two.

"Muro-chin's pretty," the kid says as he bit a chocolate-dipped stick in half, promptly pushing both halves into his mouth afterwards. "I thought, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go."

How alarmingly shallow. Tatsuya falls for it on the spot.

"What's your name again?")


	2. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time a werewolf AU.

It takes a full minute of Muro-chin pointing the gun at him before he decides he should do something about it.

The smart thing would be to transform while the enemy's immobile, and to run, on hind legs faster than his human ones; it would be difficult for even a hunter's eyes to follow his trail in a night as dark as this, with the new moon curtained behind clouds. More than a headstart, it would be a guaranteed escape. He'd meet with his brothers in the morning, brushing fur from their clothes, hiding until it became time to run again. He'd never have to see Muro-chin, again.

The smarter thing would be to transform while the enemy's immobile, and to attack, with teeth sharper and longer than his human ones; it would be easy to tear out a hunter's throat or crack his skull with the rush of power in his veins, his blood singing for more of its kind spilled on the ground.

He'd laugh if he weren't more predisposed to howling.

More than terrible, it would be impossible, because Muro-chin had never been an ordinary hunter, and without meaning to he had turned Atsushi into more than an ordinary beast.

And because he's used to being thought of as stupid, Atsushi decides to live up to the rumors and takes a step forward.

Muro-chin steadies his aim, shouts, "I'll shoot."

 _If you were going to do that_ , Atsushi thinks, another step closer, _you'd have pulled the trigger a minute ago._

Muro-chin repeats his intentions (his lies) and switches his target from Atsushi's forehead to his chest. Atsushi lets a slow, lazy sort of grin spread on his face once Muro-chin is near enough to touch, once his fingers fold over Muro-chin's own to press the muzzle of the gun right above his heart.

"I'll shoot," Muro-chin says, again, his voice an earthquake and his eyes a storm. His hands seem torn over which part of his consciousness they should listen to.

 _If it's you_ , Atsushi thinks, his pulse a normal pace, _then it won't be so bad._

"You probably taste good when you're hot-blooded." He licks his lips like a monster would in this situation, but he had never been that good of an actor. "Guess I'll never find out."

"These are silver, Atsushi." Muro-chin pleads with him with his eyes when his mouth could not, "you won't survive."

"Yeah," Atsushi agrees, his free hand busying itself with the tips of Muro-chin's fringe, "but you won't either."

Atsushi doesn't mean his brothers seeking revenge, or the other hunters punishing him for letting a wolf live amongst them for so long; the real enemy is sealed under Muro-chin's ribcage, too vulnerable for self-preservation and too weak to live past the grief of killing him.

 _Sucks to be us, Muro-chin_ , Atsushi thinks, accepting of fate whichever direction it swings, _though we're lucky it goes both ways._

"We don't have all night," he adds, when moonlight hits the glimmer on Muro-chin's cheeks. "Are you gonna shoot or not?"

"I am," Muro-chin says, having found his resolve, and pulls the trigger, but not before aiming it instead at the empty sky. 


	3. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of an impromptu wedding in Vegas.

Married.

The word stalls his throat mid-swallow, the reality of it so far removed from himself that even the rustle of his black tuxedo seems surreal, when he shifts a particular way. It's half a size larger than it should be, slightly loose around his shoulders. The last time he'd worn a suit was at some distant uncle's funeral years and years ago. He feels like a different person.

He _is_ a different person, technically. Hitched. The other half of a whole. He tries it again in a terrified whisper.

_Married._

It brings his senses to a stuttering halt in both English and Japanese. The weight leaning against his side lifts his head, presses his cheek on Atsushi's upper arm.

"Did you say something?"

There is a melodic lilt to Muro-chin's voice, even when he's slurring. Atsushi winces in response to the uncomfortable flip of his stomach.

"It's nothing." A lie, of course; a white, impulsive one, but he freezes up immediately afterwards. _He's married_ now, is he allowed to do stuff like this? Will it bring him bad luck if he's not completely honest with his... with his--

Muro-chin lurches forward to stab at the elevator buttons with more aggression than necessary. "What's taking so long? Why aren't we there yet?"

Atsushi tugs him back and grimaces at the brightly-lit elevator controls. Muro-chin had managed to press every button before their floor. _Bothersome._

"Because you're a dumbass. Stay here." Atsushi reaches round his back to grip him by the waist, holding him upright. Muro-chin mimics the motion with a hand positioned along the dip of his spine. The elevator goes up one floor, its doors opening to no one in particular.

Muro-chin starts to shudder.

"What's wrong?" Atsushi leans down, afraid to find him crying (always, _always,_ afraid to find him crying) and at first it seems like that, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth and-- oh.

Bastard.

"What's so funny?" This time his tone has no trace of concern because Muro-chin is _laughing,_ full-on body-rolling laughter that steals his voice as they go up another floor.

"Sorry, sorry," says Muro-chin, sounding entirely like he's not. At all. His fingers rake up Atsushi's back absently, inviting gooseflesh and more of that stomach-flipping nonsense.

This, at least, is familiar.

The elevator doors finally reach their floor and Atsushi all but hauls him out into the penthouse suite that had been reserved for them, pushing him to sit on the nearest ornate couch. Muro-chin bounces on the cushion and Atsushi smiles despite himself.

"Don't get up," he says, but a hand around his wrist stops him from pulling away.

"Where are you going?"

"You should drink water or you'll get dehydrated. I'll get some from the fridge."

"No, Atsushi," says Muro-chin, oddly serious. "I need to _dance_."

"What--" is as far as he gets before Muro-chin rams into his chest, dizzy from standing up too quickly and _still_ giggling. He places his hands on Muro-chin's hips to make him sit again when Muro-chin's arms loop around his neck, or attempt to.

"Too short." Muro-chin grins, earnest and flushed, and Atsushi has to remind himself to breathe, much less remember what he'd been doing a second ago. The fingertips that had grazed his nape flit along the curve of his throat before settling, palms flat on his chest. "I suppose this will do."

Muro-chin begins to hum a quieter rendition of a song that had been played at the reception, shifting his weight from one foot to another, his characteristic grace missing from his movements.

Atsushi sighs, his own body stationary. "You need to go to bed. You're drunk."

"No," says Muro-chin, soft, unslurred. "I'm in love."

 _Disgusting_ , a ghost of Atsushi's former self says. His current self would like to echo the sentiment, but he is in in one of the best rooms in this hotel, with a perfect view of the night sky and the city below it, because it's their honeymoon. Too late to leave that up for debate.

He raises the metaphorical white flag and starts to sway in place. If their room was closer to the ground he's convinced he might be able to hear the traffic outside, or the nightlife that's cooling down, but like this the only sounds are the minute footfalls on the carpet, the distant whirring of the airconditioner, and Muro-chin's voice, still (annoyingly) in tune.

It's not so bad.

A minute passes, then two, then three, then ten. He waits for Muro-chin to run out of songs but the humming stops halfway into the third, and he bends down the moment Muro-chin tilts his face up, their lips meeting as the last of the music dissipates.

Muro-chin tastes like wine without the bitterness and he has the same heady effect, a warmth that spreads from his mouth to his limbs, the skin of his throat reddening with a flavor different from embarrassment. It travels to his torso to pool in his belly and drifts lower; and so do his hands, tugging at Muro-chin's belt and untucking his shirt from his pants so they could roam free underneath his clothes. When Muro-chin breaks the kiss Atsushi chases his lips for a moment, but Muro-chin's stern expression is a jolt of clarity.

It wouldn't be the first time his restraint -- or lack thereof -- had landed him in trouble.

"Muro-chin," he says, a little shaky, unsure if he'd just gone and ruined a moment. "I'm--"

"Now," interrupts Muro-chin, and it seems Atsushi had mistranslated. The look in Muro-chin's eyes is mirrored in his own and can only be described as _hungry._ "Now, we need to go to bed."

Ah. The bed. Honeymoon. Right.

"Why didn't you just say so?" says Atsushi, grumbling to hide the fact that he'd been worried for nothing. With hands still greedy for skin he scoops up Muro-chin, who's making himself useful for once by wrapping his legs around his waist and kissing him again. Much better.

The tongue in his mouth proves a worthy distraction but he manages to relocate them to the bed without incident, throwing Muro-chin to the middle of the mattress and following suit. Muro-chin grabs him by his lapels.

"Take these off," he says, which Atsushi ignores to rid Muro-chin of his obstrustive clothes instead. Muro-chin shakes his head and pushes his hands away. "I said, take them off."

Atsushi growls and does as he's told, shedding the jacket and kicking it to the floor. _Married_ doesn't have to mean mature. He loosens the bowtie from his collar and spares a glance at Muro-chin, snorting at what he finds.

"So slow. Look, I'm beating you."

"Shut up," says Muro-chin, his jacket stuck at his elbows and his fingers struggling with the buttons of his dress shirt. His hair, which had been swept back for the ceremony, now falls messily over his eye, and he blows at the loose strands before thumping back on the bed. "Okay, never mind. Let's do it like this."

"Like what?"

"Like _this_." Muro-chin punctuates the sentence with a hand skirting along Atsushi's thigh. Atsushi hadn't realized how hard he was until Muro-chin's palm was there to rock against, but there's still the matter of--

"Eh, the suits will get dirty."

"That's why we invented dry-cleaning."

Atsushi couldn't care less about the state of the tuxes, though Muro-chin speaks again before he could complain. "We can do it properly tomorrow. At the moment I just..."

He falters, stopping short of Atsushi's crotch. Atsushi knows him well enough to ascertain what 'improper' implies: their clothes left on, the lube unsalvaged from their luggage, and so much skin left untouched. A quick fix.   
  
Except this time they're _married,_ and this quick fix is merely the beginning of a series that should span the rest of their lives.

"Stupid," says Atsushi, guiding Muro-chin's hand into his underwear as soon as his belt buckle and pants are unfastened. He gasps at that first squeeze and exhales into Muro-chin's mouth at the second, his elbows on the mattress on either side of Muro-chin's head.

_I don't mind, as long as it's you._

"Atsushi," says Muro-chin, syllables that come out as a whisper or a moan as his fingers stroke and twist and pull. "Atsushi," he says, his other hand tangled in Atsushi's hair, pulling it loose from the ponytail.

It's all backwards, Atsushi thinks. He should be the one saying Muro-chin's name because _he's_ the one thrusting into Muro-chin's clenched fist, but Muro-chin is stealing his spotlight and worst of all it's _working_ , because every word steals the breath out of his lungs and teeters him closer to the edge.

"Atsushi," says Muro-chin, as Atsushi's hips move in unison with his fingers, faster, desperate for friction. Muro-chin's lips brush his temple and his knuckles nudge sweaty strands of hair from Atsushi's eyes. "Atsushi," he says, staring at Atsushi's panting, parted mouth. "Atsushi, I love you."

 _Not fair_ , Atsushi thinks, as he sees white and spills over Muro-chin's hand (and, presumably, Muro-chin's dress shirt, his tux jacket and his pants.)

Not fair at all.

He lets his forehead rest against Muro-chin's collarbone, just for a second, gentle fingers still carding through his scalp. It would be easy to to fall asleep right there were it not for the sudden wet popping noises beside his head. He peeks and regrets it instantly.

"Gross," he says, the heat in his cheeks returning at the sight of Muro-chin licking his palm. "Wash your hands."

"It's fine. I keep telling you, yours is sweet."

(Pity Atsushi's stomach isn't pancakes because they'd flip themselves.)

Truth is, he's not a different person than he was yesterday. His tastebuds didn't magically rearrange themselves to like the nasty taste of come, for one, and in many ways he's still as selfish as he had been at sixteen. He's not sure if _married_ is a word that will ever fit him comfortably, even if he _does_ like that new ring on Muro-chin's finger and the fact that he wears its matching pair.

It simply describes the way he feels -- and has always felt -- when Muro-chin is around.


	4. Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripper AU.

He's not sure what he did wrong, or if this -- waiting outside the club in the cold he _hates_ , all for a glimpse of someone who's probably not as pretty as he pretends to be when he isn't caked in powder and strobe lights -- counts as one of the wrong things, but it's too late to turn around when the person in question appears on the sidewalk with only a thin scarf to ward off the chill.

"Atsushi?" Muro-chin says, with the tone of someone who just wanted to mind their own business but couldn't possibly ignore the magnificent barrier between them and the door. "What are you doing here?"

To bide himself some time before replying (he doesn't even know how to begin doing that, anyway) he clamps his hands over Muro-chin's shoulders to gently shove him back a few steps, using his fingertips to tilt Muro-chin's chin up towards the nearest streetlight, for a better view.

Then Atsushi frowns, because he likes what he sees. _Really_ likes what he sees.

He only gets the faintest sensation of the skin under his fingers growing warm before Muro-chin shrugs off his hold and refuses to meet his eyes.

"Do you plan on answering my question, or are we gonna stand here all night?"

 _That's fine with me_ , is the instinctual response, but Atsushi's lived long enough to know that that, at least, isn't remotely within the realm of acceptable. He shoves his hands in his pockets and mutters into his scarf, "you were gone."

Not the best, but also not the worst start.

"Well, I picked up a different shift."

"Why?"

Muro-chin smirks at his shoes, but it's not like the quirks of mouth he flashed Atsushi those first nights they 'spent' together, not what he'd use to goad other guys into slipping bigger bills under his garters. This one is more genuine, more... hurt?

"I could be nice," he says. His voice is small, and it doesn't match the slight contortion of his features like he's pissed at god knows what. "Or I could be honest. Which would you prefer?"

Atsushi declines to answer this time, and it seems he actually chose right for once because Muro-chin speaks again immediately afterwards.

"I wanted to avoid you. That's all."

Ah. Then it's no longer a question of whether he did _something_ wrong, but, "what'd I do wrong?"

Muro-chin's eyebrows shoot up in what Atsushi interprets as sheer confusion. "What?"

If he were a couple of years younger Atsushi would've stomped his foot to indicate how frustrating this whole exchange is. Since he's an adult now, the only solution he can fathom is to dig out his wallet and thrust a wad of cash at Muro-chin's chest.

"There. Don't avoid me anymore."

The last thing he expects is for Muro-chin to burst out in laughter; laughter that sounds like he's two seconds away from crying.

"I don't want this."

"You're an idiot. Isn't that why you work here?" Muro-chin hasn't even _looked_ at the amount yet, which has him mumbling, "I'm not paying for a dance, you know. Just take it."

Muro-chin shakes his head, and then he's folding the bills into Atsushi's palms like the mere act of touching them is burning his own hands. "That's the problem, Atsushi. If you asked, I'd spend a night with you for free."

He looks a little pink, under the lamplight; if the sudden warmth of Atsushi's cheeks is a symptom, then he must be suffering from the same affliction.

"Then do that."

 


	5. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they're girls and Himuro is thirsty as ever.

Shopping with Murasakibara is usually a good idea. For all her initial complaining she becomes oddly docile when Himuro holds a shirt or a skirt against her frame, her snacks tucked in the pockets of her overalls, and she doesn't mind helping carry Himuro's numerous bags as long as Himuro treats her in the food court when they're done. Unlike Himuro's previous shopping partners, she doesn't run off to other stores or spiral into an existential crisis about buying an item that's overbudget; unlike the others, she knows everything that comes out of Murasakibara's mouth is sincere, whether it is a compliment or criticism. She doesn't have much knowledge on fashion but even she can tell if an outfit looks good or not, and she tells Himuro exactly what she has to hear.

That's another nice thing about shopping with her, practicalities aside. Murasakibara is, plainly, a treat to be around, whether she is pointing out that Himuro has way too many of those white v-necks or frowning when Himuro insists that she try on a dress, just this once. Her size isn't a problem, because Himuro makes it as a challenge to find something that fits her broad hips and shoulders without making her look frumpy, and she's succeeded at it so far. Murasakibara has never said so, but Himuro likes to think she's thankful for the help.

(Murasakibara is most fluent in neither English or Japanese, but in candy, and she always leaves a lollipop in Himuro's handbag before they part ways at the dorm. Putting it in words would be superflous.)

Today is strange. They're not shopping for normal clothes, but--

"Lingerie?" Himuro has to say it aloud and repeat it, several times, else she won't believe it. That was definitely the store Murasakibara gestured at before she turned into a mess of pink ears and downturned lips. On the right side of it is a store for prescription glasses, and on the left is a store for formal suits. The shop with the dummy in the thigh-high stockings on its display window is the culprit.

"Never mind, Muro-chin." The only thing stopping Murasakibara from stalking away is Himuro's precationary hold on her wrist, though it won't keep her for long. "Let's just go."

Himuro's fingers are firm and so is her tone, albeit apologetic. "No, I'm sorry. You wanted to, right?" How inconsiderate of her to not have realized sooner, when she herself owns several pairs of pretty underthings for... special occasions. Every girl needs a pair, and that includes Murasakibara. "We'll head inside, or you won't get your pastries."

"Liar, you promised..." Murasakibara grumbles behind her, though she doesn't as much as put up a fight when Himuro tugs her into the shop, her pulse thumping underneath Himuro's fingertips.

Huh.

No time to dwell on that once they've entered the store, which is an assault on the senses in every definition. The air is permeated with some vanilla perfume and some vaguely popular song is on the radio, but the decadence of its interior is the show stealer, and what Himuro imagines has taken up Murasakibara's attention.

One glance up at Murasakibara's face reveals that she's right, suspicion and unfamiliarity giving way to nervousness on Murasakibars's usually sullen features.

"Hey," says Himuro, remembering her first time in one of these places, the feeling that she wouldn't be able to pull off even the ugliest thing they had in stock. She was wrong then, like Murasakibara is now. "It's no different from a candy store, isn't it?"

"Stupid," is the quick retort as Murasakibara breaks free of her grasp, though there's no attempts at escaping anymore. "They don't sell those in candy stores."

She points at a nearby rack with an assortment of lacy, barely-there thongs, and Himuro has to smirk. "Well, maybe they should. Come on."

Murasakibara moves instinctively to follow her before hesitation gets there first. "Mm, Muro-chin... where do we start?"

This is where a sales lady steps in, sparing Himuro the trouble of pretending to know what she's doing. As much as she'd like it to be otherwise, this isn't exactly her area of expertise.

The lady takes Murasakibara through the steps, from measurements to designs to fitting, except when they get to the cramped little room itself Murasakibara uses her full height to tower over the lady and says, in no uncertain terms, "I want Muro-chin."

"Muro-chin?"

"That would be me," says Himuro, swooping the hangers out of the lady's hands before Murasakibara starts in on her 'I'll crush you' spiel. "Thank you for the help."

The lady takes that cue to make herself scarce, and Himuro has to admit that, with this disaster averted, she's also a bit relieved that Murasakibara had asked for her at all. Doesn't mean she's getting off the hook that easily though.

"That was unnecessary, Atsuko. What did she ever do to you?"

Murasakibara pouts like she does when she's on the receiving end of a scold. Her excuses are always bullshit too, and this one's no exception.

"She tried to get me to wear red. I don't like red."

Yet they always, always make Himuro laugh. "Just try these on and show me when you're done."

It occurs to her after Murasakibara's closed the door that she's now the idle one between the two of them, without snacks to occupy her hands for the pretense of busyness. There's not a lot of people in the store, but she's still oddly self-conscious about waiting outside like a guy forced to go along with the trip. She might as well try on a few things too.

Because she's more familiar with the process she doesn't bother to call a sales lady, though one steps in anyway, as if eager to dress her up like a doll. She's handed this and that, stuff she'd never wear on her own, but isn't it all for show?

This is how she gets roped into trying on a corset, her smile hapless in the mirror as the lady chats on about how lovely her complexion is while lacing it up. "No," she says, when asked if she had a boyfriend. "I'm here with a friend."

A shadow appears behind them, said friend suddenly looming over the scene with an expression that can only be described as affronted.

"Muro-chin," says Murasakibara, and from what Himuro can see, she doesn't have a top on. "What are you doing?"

"Atsuko!" Himuro whirls around, already apologetic about whipping the sales lady in the face with her hair. "You can't wander the store like that. And what are you doing out of your stall?"

"I asked Muro-chin first," replies Murasakibara unhelpfully, using her hip to shove the lady to the side so she can stand behind Himuro instead. "I'll do it."

There's no changing her mind, when she has that expression on. Himuro tells the lady it's okay to leave and, once out of earshot, tells Murasakibara, "you're gonna develop a reputation here. Not a good one, mind you."

"I don't care. They'll forget when we're gone."

Himuro laughs to herself, shaking her head at the thought of anyone forgetting an encounter with a two meter tall Japanese girl. "I highly doubt that."

Murasakibara shrugs, her gaze focused on the corset straps as if to figure out what on earth she should do with it. "They shouldn't get in my way. I was looking for Muro-chin but you weren't there."

"I was in the stall next door, Atsuko."

"I didn't know that. It was bothersome." She starts, hesitantly, to thread the ribbons through the hooks, and Himuro doesn't have the heart to tell her that she has to pull tighter if she wants to do it right.

Murasakibara doesn't speak anymore after that, her attention taken up by the corset. It could have been an easy silence, much like their other ones, if Himuro wasn't suddenly hyperaware of their proximity. They've seen each other in various states of undress, of course, but that was in the locker room, with the rest of the team, not in a cramped dressing room with low lighting, both of them half-dressed in lace and silk.

Uncharacteristically gentle knuckles graze her spine and gooseflesh blooms in their wake, Himuro's breath coming in short spurts like a swimmer's; fitting, because she's drowning in this atmosphere, the quiet permeated by their exhales and the faint threading of the corset's every hole.

"Ahhh," says Murasakibara, just when Himuro's thinking she might pass out, breaking the moment and saving her the embarrassment of losing consciousness in a lingerie store. "This is hard. My fingers are too big."

"Why," Himuro starts to say, swallowing past the implications of that, "why don't you let the lady do it?"

"Don't want to." Murasakibara bows her head so her hair obscures her features, invisible to Himuro in their reflections. "Want to help."

That would've been enough to stump her, for a minute or more, so she makes a note to recover. "You don't have to. I'm not gonna buy this anyway; they were just fooling around. You can go back to your own stall, since we're here for you."

"Hmm." Murasakibara's fingers drop, much to Himuro's combined relief and dismay. "Okay." She pushes the door open, adding, "that's too bad. It looks good on Muro-chin."

A throwaway comment, but Himuro flushes all the way to her toes, her skin blending in with the rose-colored corset like it had been made for her. She's quick to change out of it, tugging at the laces like they're on fire -- they aren't, she is -- until she can put her shirt on again, neutral ground, but just when her suffering nears its completion Murasakibara calls her over to her stall with several knocks on the door and a distinct whine.

''Muro-chiiin."

Himuro breathes, as deeply as she can, before answering, as she always does, "yes, Atsuko?"

"I need help now."

The sales lady is out of the question. Himuro's out here on her own, a traveler in the desert with a parched throat and without a sprinkling of water. At least she's dressed, and composed, unlike earlier when some unearthly possession had her turning pink at Murasakibara's touch and under her watchful gaze. Murasakibara usually reserved that look for the insides of candy shops, and this has never happened before. Must be the store's doing.

"I'm coming in," she warns, waiting a few seconds to push open the door to Murasakibara's stall, then closing the lock behind her. Big mistake.

It means she's trapped in an impossibly small space with Murasakibara, again, and this time Murasakibara's in a dark purple brassiere with straps that criss-crossed along her sculpted shoulderblades and met at her chest in a complicated front clasp. No doubt the thing that Murasakibara's having trouble with, the culprit that's going to leave Himuro stranded on an island built on long looks when she thinks Murasakibara can't see. She doesn't even know how she got there.

Murasakibara turns around, expression imploring, a little ashamed. "I don't think it fits."

"No," says Himuro, trying not to look at the swell of skin, normally hidden under a jersey, that's basked by intricate lace. "You don't need a bigger size. Just..."

She reaches out, hesitant for permission she doesn't need, judging by the roll of Murasakibara's eyes. "Stupid. That's why I called you."

"Hah. Right." Her fingers land on their destination, frightfully close and just as terrifyingly intimate. "I'll do my best."

The clasp takes her longer than expected to do -- is she procrastinating? perhaps suicidal? -- and it stretches the silence, even when Himuro coughs to try and quell it.

"Say, Atsuko," she starts, in another attempt to make the ordeal less awkward. On her end, at least; Murasakibara seems unfazed by the whole quid pro quo arrangement of I'll-do-up-your-undergarments, You-do-up-mine. "Which boy are you doing this for? Is he on the basketball team too?"

"I'm not doing it for a boy." Murasakibara's response is curt, her lips pursed after the fact. Himuro feels sheepish for having asked at all.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed." Finally, finally, the clasp is done, so she steps back to survey her work while pointedly ignoring what they were covering up. "There, you're all set."

Murasakibara heaves a sigh, her breasts heaving with the movement -- this was such a terrible idea -- and then, instead of turning to the mirror, lifts her eyes to Himuro's.

"Do you like it?"

Something about the way she asks, thoughtful with a smidge of nervous, reminds Himuro of how she'd been earlier. That's when it dawns, like the sun with its fingers reaching up for noon, the words she had misinterpreted and what they actually meant: _I'm not doing it for a boy._

As close to a confession as Atsuko will ever get.

Here, Himuro chooses her words as carefully, no longer hesitant as her fingertips brush strands of Murasakibara's hair from her neck, "I do. I do like it."

And here, Murasakibara doesn't smile, but the corner of her mouth twitches, like she wants to do more with her lips than that.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they're at the counter and about to leave the store, Murasakibara leans down to whisper in her ear, "let's go back for the corset, Muro-chin."


	6. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classic food worker AU.

He's not one for sentiment, but it's times like these that he misses high school; specifically, his beloved cafeteria, the edge none of the other schools had when they scouted him. People say university is supposed to be more fun. but that's not the case where the food is concerned. He's taken to putting together his own bentos or eating out of campus on longer breaks, just because the flavors they offered are so lacking, so disappointing.

His finely-honed palate refuses to stand for it, but there's something even stronger than the will of his tongue that drags him back and again and again, like clockwork, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

That something is a _someone,_ who happened to serve him his first inedible muffin when he thought to make use of his student meal plan. Usually that would've been enough to land him a spot in Atsushi's blacklist for the rest of eternity, but his smile left such a sweet aftertaste in Atsushi's mouth that it took him a good minute or two to realize that he wanted to spit it out.

Curiosity won out in the end, so whenever he's able he visits the caf for another glimpse of that syrupy, stomach-churning grin, and it doesn't take long to pin down the guy's part-time schedule to two days of the week during lunch hour.

He always asks for a muffin, on the dot. Didn't matter which kind, since he'll only take a bite of it to ascertain it's still terrible.

And then, just when things were going great, the guy acts out of routine.

"Happy Tuesday," he says, with a smile that's the same and not, tinged with yet another squeeze of sugar icing, as he sets the solitary muffin on Atsushi's tray. Atsushi stares, dumbstruck, at the hearing him say words outside of 'good afternoon.'

"Hah?"

"Assorted stale muffin, twice a week, at twelve o'clock." The guy motions at him with his pastry tongs, head slightly tilted at an angle that allowed Atsushi to see the eye peeking from under his bangs (don't these people have to wear a hairnet?) "That's you, isn't it? What's the occasion?"

Atsushi glances down because the guy's sparkling at him so hard he might go blind from it, and on the slim chance it'll hide the sudden rise of color on his cheeks. "No reason," he mumbles, gripping the tray with both hands. The moment turns awkward and he's holding the line, so it must've been peer pressure, or some masochistic spirit that possessed him to add, "see you on Thursday."

(Two days later, like clockwork, he receives a muffin on a tray and a slip of paper underneath it. This time, he's smiling too.

His muffin-buying days are _over_.)


	7. Rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen Skyfall, this is 00 Agent/Q.

"003."

On most days, Atsushi thinks Muro-chin has a nice voice. It has a pleasing lilt, a slight musical tone, and on most days he's glad to hear it, telling him how the new handgun works or where to find an entrance in a heavily secured building. Sometimes Muro-chin chatters too much about useless things, but it's only to keep Atsushi company while he's on surveillance.

Most days does not include today; he finds it kind of annoying now, actually.

"003, your earpiece is undamaged so I know you can hear me. Please provide a status report."

"Hey, I've got a pulse, haven't I?" Atsushi says irritably. "I'm obviously alive." Though not for much longer.

"They fired several rounds in your direction. Are you...?"

"Yeah, I got shot. It really hurts, you know." He's applying pressure to the hole on his chest, just three, maybe two inches from hitting his heart. When he gasps at the pain he could've sworn Muro-chin did too.

"Is it...?"

"Fatal? Probably." 

There's silence on Muro-chin's end for what must've been a minute; a relatively short time, but not when he's quickly running out of it. Muro-chin must have a good reason though.

"I've pinpointed your location and reinforcements are on their way." Ah, there it is. That's his reliable Muro-chin. "Can you hold on until then?"

It's poised as a question, but it comes out more like a demand. Atsushi cracks a smile and tastes blood on his teeth. "Depends. Does Muro-chin have a snack for me while I wait?"

"I just restocked the staff pantry, so you can have some when you come back." Muro-chin's voice didn't waver, but he didn't correct the overfamiliar, unprofessional use of his name either. He must be feeling especially worried.

Atsushi sighs dramatically, even if it makes the wound sting. "I could kill for a potato chip right now."

"That's not funny, 003."

"Sorry, Muro-chin." He's sorry for a lot of other things too, and he knows Muro-chin can hear it in his tone. "I really didn't wanna make you cry again."

His shirt is soaked and his breathing's labored, but it's harder to listen to Muro-chin softly splint open. 

"Then don't give me a reason to, Atsushi."


	8. Black & White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inception AU where Kiyoshi is the Extractor, Hanamiya is the Point Man, Momoi and Riko are an Architect duo, Himuro is the Forger and Mukkun is the Chemist.

"Ow! Watch where you're sticking that!"

Hana-chin is always noisy; a part of Atsushi wants to be nicer, so he'll keep his voice down, but a slightly bigger part of him has a vindictive streak. Hana-chin doesn't take kindly to the needle wiggling around his arm.

"I said watch it!"

"Oops." Atsushi says flatly, flicking the needle in place despite Hana-chin's wide eyes, his flinching shoulders. "It's hard when Hana-chin keeps moving."

Another flick and he yelps again ( _so_ noisy), but stays still as Atsushi fixes the rest of the drip. Finally.

"There, all done."

Hana-chin gives him a middle finger and he raises one back. He wins, because his is longer. That's how it works, right?

Sa-chin and Riko-chin are easier to deal with even if Atsushi still doesn't get why there has to be two of them doing the same job. He'd be annoyed if he had to work with another chemist, but he guesses he knows what it's like, being part of a matched set. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for--

"Mukkun," Sa-chin tells him, all sweet and soft so he doesn't mind that she interrupted his thoughts. "It's starting to hurt."

He looks down and notices that he has the needle in her arm at a weird angle; he hastily withdraws it and takes better care at the next insertion. "Sorry, Sa-chin."

"Oi, don't space out next time," Riko-chin says a reclining chair over, the sedative slurring her words. He flashes her a thumbs up and meets Sa-chin's eyes apologetically, which she accepts with a nod and a smile.

Yeah, he likes them a lot.

Kiyo-chin, on the other hand...

"Something wrong, Murasakibara?" Kiyo-chin says like Atsushi hasn't been poking at his arm for five minutes.

"Kiyo-chin's veins are always hiding," he growls under his breath; maybe it's Kiyo-chin's thick skin, maybe he's just designed to be as infuriating as humanly possible. "It's annoying."

The bark of laughter in his ear has him building up murderous urges. He understands Hana-chin's frustration a little now.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He does, though it takes two more minutes. Atsushi pumps a stronger dosage into him because it'll be a pain if Kiyo-chin woke up in the middle of the job or something, just because he's that hard to put down.

Muro-chin is always the last (or second to the last, if he counted himself), and Atsushi never makes any mistakes.

"I barely felt that," Muro-chin says after the prick, watching the silver slide into his skin. Atsushi keeps his gaze trained on it, careful not to spill any blood at all.

"That's the point." He exhales only after he's finished inserting it.

Muro-chin's smiling at him and he doesn't have to look up and see it for it to steal his breath again. "Thank you, Atsushi."

Kiyo-chin's throwing them disapproving glances (why can't he get knocked out already) but. Whatever. Atsushi's seen the way he looks at Hana-chin too. Kiyo-chin's just a hypocrite sometimes.

He turns his attention back to Muro-chin as he lays back and lets the drug take effect; maybe he notices Atsushi's thumb stroking over his hand, maybe he doesn't. It hardly matters.

"You're welcome, Muro-chin."


	9. Red, again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Himuro gets angry, and it's never pretty.

It's no secret that Atsushi has a child's temperament: shallow, easy to provoke, and prone to foot-stomping tantrums. This, too, means that his anger is quick to boil over, gone as soon at it comes, and he never holds grudges if he can help it.

Tatsuya is not so fortunate.

His anger is a simmering thing, biding its time as the hourglass of his patience runs thin before rising to the surface in an explosion of the the most cutting words his tongue would allow without bleeding out, of fists flying towards the object of his rage without regard for consequences, for the potential of burnt bridges.

(He's ugly inside, and sometimes he shows it.)

In those moments he's blind to logic and love alike, his reasoning twisted by the red in front of his eyes.

He's not proud of the things he says, of the whiteness in his knuckles because he's not a kid anymore and he shouldn't resort to violence no matter how much he wants to, so he turns the rest of himself into a blade and watches, vengeful and single-minded, as he lodges into Atsushi's heart, watches Atsushi's features contort with hurt and his arms fall to his sides in defeat.

He's not proud of staying where he is when Atsushi flashes him one last look before walking away; away from the remnants of their fight, away from him.

(Yeah, run away like you always do, he thinks, except he's talking to himself.)

 

* * *

 

It's a secret that Atsushi is the better one of the two of them, only because he doesn't make it so obvious. He's cruel but he's honest, and he's quick to forgive, because he doesn't easily forget why he sticks with something, or someone. He walks away only to procure a peace offering out of thin air, sweet on the tongue, sugar to fill in the scabs his words had left.

"Muro-chin," he says, and in it Tatsuya hears forgive me, and this is for you.

Tatsuya wishes he were the kind of person to say sorry in the heat of the moment, rather than leave me alone.

(He's thankful, more than anything, that Atsushi has no concept of personal space.)

He wishes he could taste something other than salt in the back of his throat when he says, "thank you," the I love you unspoken because he's the lesser one of the two of them.

Someday, he swears, as his forehead meets Atsushi's chest and he feels Atsushi's palm over his nape, I won't be so angry, and I'll be what they all think I am and what you actually are.

The worst thing he knows is that Atsushi doesn't care about someday; he only cares about now, now is when he'd whisper in Tatsuya's ear (if either of them were the sort to do those things), soft and reverent and honest as ever:

 _you're good enough for me_.


	10. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Justice AU where one of them has to use the [Helmet of Fate](http://youngjustice.wikia.com/wiki/Helmet_of_Fate).

“It’s been three days, Muro-chin,” he says, slow and weighed with finality, with frustration from the watchful eyes he hasn’t been able to shake off. He usually doesn’t mind being the object of that gaze’s attention, chalks it up to a quirk of Muro-chin’s added to a list of many, but it’s different this time. It’s not the fruit of misplaced fondness, or even suffocating pleasure. There’s a new element of paranoia added to the mix, as if he’ll disappear any moment, and it’s an absence of faith he won’t easily forgive.

_(Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.)_

Atsushi glances up from his mixing bowl, stirring motions stopped for the sake of not ruining another spatula. He forgets the force of his own grip sometimes, having to exercise caution when handling delicate things like cakes and pastries. Muro-chin’s not supposed to be one of those things.

Across the kitchen table those eyes are trained on him just as he felt they were, but they don’t seem penitent enough, so he aims for another rebuke.

“Give it a rest,” he sighs, movements heavy as he pushes the bowl to the side. “Everyone’s over it, so why aren’t you?”

The accusatory tone seems to hit home when Muro-chin actually flinches, just a little jolt of his lithe shoulders, though his face remains impassive. “You weren’t there, you don’t know how it feels–”

“Unless I’m remembering wrong, I was the one wearing that annoying helmet…” “I wasn’t finished,” Muro-chin snaps, mouth upturned in uncharacteristically visible anger. He’s weak, by superpowered standards, and Atsushi looms over him even without his full height, but Muro–chin has never been afraid of his size, has never shied away from the indifference of his stare. Atsushi always liked that about him, but today it has him gritting his teeth, jaw set on every insult and untruth threatening to loosen themselves from his tongue.

_(I’m not a baby and you’re not responsible for me.  
Besides, you can’t protect me anyway.)_

Muro-chin isn’t ready to hear them. Maybe he never will be.

“You didn’t see yourself when your body wasn’t yours. You weren’t listening to his bullshit about taking over for good.” His words are clipped, concise, and Atsushi realizes the harshness of them is an effort to disguise the trembling in his voice, his narrowed eyes only a stopgap measure against escaping tears.

“You don’t know how it feels to be told you’re never coming back.”

Muro-chin is weak, but he’s also fearless, and fragile and impenetrable; he’s both gentle-mannered and hot-tempered, irritating and heartaching, and sometimes so plainly, unforgivably stupid.

(Atsushi does know. He had bargained for his own soul, prying resolution off his bones as he fought for every reason he had to be worthy of regaining control again, of everyone he cared about despite acting otherwise, everything narrowed down to a single person.)

“Idiot,” he says, with the table still between them, and all the words he still isn’t brave enough to tell him. “Like I could stay in there when Muro-chin was on the other side.” It’s not a matter of strength or hubris. It’s not any more or any less proven by the sudden heat of Atsushi’s cheeks, the softness of Muro-chin’s eyes or his softer smile.

It’s just the way it is.


	11. Viscera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are ghouls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please look at the accompanying [art](http://istehlurvz.tumblr.com/post/97797288199/precious-brain-spawns-that-are-fed-by-jordan-and).

“Are you the one who’s been causing trouble?” he asks, the question echoing to the opposite end of the alley where the intruder stands in repose. Quiet energy radiates from him in the form of the dragon mask he wears, silver as the moonlight currently illuminating its surface, black as the shadows that hide it. It’s a classic look, reminiscent of old paintings hung up in palace hallways, and curiously arrogant, acutely aware of its majesty if the chosen mythical creature is anything to go by.

It’s also profoundly boring, in Atsushi’s opinion, as it says nothing about its bearer and everything about what they’re trying to be. He’s met countless ghouls like this, small fry with illusions of grandeur daring to disrupt the semblance of peace he maintains in the ward, fragile enough as it is.

Makes him wish he could eat them, if only it didn’t taste so bad.

“Can you stop doing that, please?” He pouts behind his own mask, childish petulance seeping into his tone. “It’s too much work to keep everybody in line. There isn’t a lot of feeding ground to go around, you know.” He neglects to mention that it’s because he’s taken over most of them himself, but he’s a growing boy. He gets hungry.

When the dragon doesn’t respond again, the impatience in the air thickens. Most of his cohorts are itching for carnage, and Atsushi sees no reason to deny them.

There’s a particular recruit at his right with his kagune already exposed, glancing at him for permission. _So hot-blooded_ , Atsushi muses, though outwardly he nods and waves a dismissive hand.

“Do your best, whatever that means.”

He watches the recruit surge forward, aiming for a killing blow. He watches the dragon not even sidestep the attack, not even unleash his own kagune; he simply stretches his arm out in the opportune moment, neatly catching the recruit’s neck and twisting it to the side with an audible snap. He watches the recruit’s corpse drop to the concrete, like a puppet with cut strings. So hot-blooded, and so disposable because of the fact.

The ‘fight’ didn’t even last ten seconds. He hopes, as he signals for the rest of them to take the dragon down, that the remaining battle is just as short, though it would be nice if they succeeded for reputation’s sake alone. Ward leaders are supposed to care about that sort of stuff.

To his underlings’ credit their numbers are enough to coax the dragon into unleashing his bikaku, swift and graceful and used sparingly, mostly for defensive moves. The dragon hasn’t taken fatalities since the first guy, opting instead to keep them alive with a bit of maiming here, a peppering of injury there. Nothing they can’t heal from. Atsushi underestimated his abilities, but maybe not his intentions; if he’s not looking to start a war, then what is he after?

At least the new recruits aren’t completely embarrassing. One of them manages to land a kick that knocks the dragon’s mask to the ground and gets a large chunk ripped from their thigh in the process. Atsushi claps once for their efforts.

The dragon whips his head at the sound, allowing Atsushi a better view of his face, striking in the darkness, though half of it is obscured by hair.

(It must be easy to lure humans into secluded corners, with a face like that. Atsushi would bet they do it voluntarily.)

As if remembering that he shouldn’t bother with the others, the dragon makes a beeline for his direction, and Atsushi realizes why he gave his bikaku such little time to shine earlier. The dragon had been saving it all for him, proven by the stab he delivers to Atsushi’s abdomen that barely encounters any resistance. The pain doesn’t register—he’s been hit with worse—but the dragon’s expression does.

His expression or lack thereof, chillingly impassive while he has Atsushi impaled against the wall. It belongs to the routine champion at a poker table, or on a spectator at an empty museum, the set of his jaw as beautiful as his eyes are cold. He is a winter breeze blowing in the dead of summer to ignite excitement in the humidity, his breath like ice on Atsushi’s cheek; intimate, almost, with this proximity.

So the dragon suits his mask after all.

“That enthusiasm is annoying,” Atsushi says, though what he means is _not bad_. It shows in the way his slow-spreading smirk meets the corners of his mask’s mouth for an even wider grin, like a children’s mascot both friendly and grotesque. The threat of his teeth doesn’t deter but emboldens the dragon into thrusting his bikaku deeper, gently nudging it under Atsushi’s unbroken ribs.

“All I wanted was your attention.”

Atsushi tilts his head at the voice that fills his ears, as pleasant as the words imply. There’s no undercurrent of violence or any indication that his hands are as slick and red as they are, and if it’s attention he wants, then he has it.

“My name’s Himuro Tatsuya. I’d like to take up permanent residence.” It would have been easy for Atsushi to break free, and it was within his rights to say no to someone who couldn’t follow the simplest of rules, but something about that smile pins him in place, and there’s a spark in those eyes that—

Wait. That eye. It occurs to him that he can only see one, and it’s not a kakugan.

His reflexes are lightning, no, faster, twice as deadly, and his long fingers are knotted in the other’s hair before evasive reaction is even a possibility. Atsushi yanks the bangs from that previously hidden face to reveal exactly what he’d expected to find.

“So you’re that One Eye I heard stories about.” He releases the strands entwined around his knuckles, though he shifts his hold to tip that chin towards the light, all the better to see, and to admire. There are answers he doesn’t have yet and stories he’d like to hear, but he’ll ask about them later; for now all he does is inhale, and this time he notices a scent sweeter than he’s smelled on any human.

Atsushi wets the dried blood on his lips. “And here I thought you were just being mysterious, Muro-chin.”


	12. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodyguard AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More [art](http://istehlurvz.tumblr.com/post/100733632834/aaaand-twitter-shit-aka-mob-boss-bodygaurd-au-or).

Ten minutes.

That is how long Atsushi leaves Muro-chin alone, and one glance outside the convenience store window tells him he ought to have known better.

Nighttime cloaks the city in saturated hues, but Atsushi has a higher than average visual acuity — he has his mother to thank for forcefeeding him all those carrots in his youth, despite his protests — and he has the imprint of Muro-chin’s countenance committed to memory, even if it is illuminated only by a dimming streetlamp.

Instinct has him fleeing the store, his purchases askew on the counter, because these are what he sees:

first, Muro-chin is not alone, because there is a man with his elbow propped on the wall beside Muro-chin’s head, crowding him into a corner, cutting off his means of escape, and

secondly, the man is a few inches taller than Muro-chin, and though he knows that height doesn’t win a battle it certainly gives an advantage — this is something Atsushi can say from experience — and this worsened by the fact that

thirdly, Atsushi can’t see what is underneath the man’s clothes, not his physique or any concealed weapons, his coat as black as the decaffeineted evening and Atsushi is wide awake.

(The fourth thing, or what is actually the first thing, that he notices is how the man is leaning forward, languid and slow, as if aware that Muro-chin won’t move away, and he doesn’t. A lighter flicks open between them, an orange glow dancing so close to Muro-chin’s lips to light the cigarette slotted in his teeth; the man’s palm cupped over the flame to shield it from the breeze, his knuckles brushing against Muro-chin’s cheek.

Atsushi will raze the bastard’s house to the ground.)

He crosses the distance in five strides or less, his arm curved behind him and let loose like a catapult toward the man as soon as he is within reach. The blow lands heavy on the target’s ear, his head ricocheting off the brick wall, his dripping smile smeared clean off his face. Atsushi bares his teeth in a bastardization of a grin as if to say, _there’s more where that came from._ The lighter hits the asphalt with a near inaudible clink; the lit cigarette stays where it is.

“That’s enough, Atsushi.”

Muro-chin’s voice is calm, cadenced, anchoring him before he can get lost in the storm of adrenaline that floods his brain as he rearranges the man’s features for daring to step into Muro-chin’s presence. For breathing the same air as him, for sharing the filth on his skin.

He withdraws, releasing a ragged exhale as he stands. In the process of reducing the man’s face to pulp they ended up horizontal, somehow, and deeper into the back lane. Muro-chin bends to dust off the knees of his pants, fingertips skimming purposefully up the midst of his thigh.

“Go take a walk.” Comes the soft-spoken order. Atsushi obeys. He remains nearby, of course, so Muro-chin’s murmured apologies, quiet as they are, still wafts into his hearing.

“Sorry, he has a temper,” Muro-chin says, and Atsushi checks his fists for stray molars lodged in his flesh — they wouldn’t be the first — in lieu of imagining Muro-chin’s mouth touching the man’s ear.

“But mine’s _worse_.”

Then a loud crack, two, distinct to that of fractured knees, and a scream. Muro-chin emerges from the dark, unharmed, and Atsushi forgets family trees and reason, grabbing him by the upper arms so he wouldn’t stand so far.

They kiss to the music of the man sobbing in the alley; Atsushi tastes iron and wishes it was powdered sugar, maybe, but anything else would’ve felt fake and arbitrary.

(This is exactly how their mouths were meant to meet.)

“I saw the gun in his jacket.” Muro-chin says, twirling a lock of Atsushi’s hair around his finger. The corners of his eyes are crinkled in amusement, though the smirk is replaced by a sigh. “I knew what he was after. What kind of sitting duck do you think I am?”

“A scary one,” Atsushi mutters, earning him sharp laughter. He shakes his head, because he hadn’t been telling the truth, and amends, “I wasn’t thinking.”

Not of their history or the strict roles they’ve been given, not of the hierarchy that separates them even when they can’t be persuaded to sleep in separate beds. Not of the consequences or the cards they will be dealt, in some distant future where they’re discovered.

Only that he wanted to do it, and has wanted to for a long time.

“That much was obvious.” Muro-chin wears an expression like the moon pulling the tides, as if to say, _it’s okay, I wanted it, too._ His palms mold along Atsushi’s jaw, cementing themselves there without intention to move, even as he teases, “you left your candy at the store, right? Why don’t you go get it?”

He licks his lips, and Atsushi mimics the action.

Ten minutes.

His candy can wait for ten minutes, and not a second longer.


End file.
